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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667592">Peas in a Pod</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill'>gardnerhill</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Without a Clue (1988)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Community: holmestice, Gen, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:02:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To Sherlock Holmes she may have been <i>the</i> woman, but to Reginald Kincaid she was Jenny.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Irene Adler &amp; Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020, More Holmes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Peas in a Pod</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts">Iwantthatcoat</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To Sherlock Holmes she may have been <i>the</i> woman, but to Reginald Kincaid she was Jenny.</p><p>When I began assisting the police with my deductive abilities, for fear of scandalising a conservative medical society I attributed my work to a fictional fellow lodger, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes (who might have been named Carbury Holmes had the County Kildare travel book on my desk not been open to Sherlockstown). I had not anticipated the clamour of the public to see this fellow. As a smokescreen I hired an actor to portray the sleuth at crime scenes, a Reginald Kincaid who was at loose ends after the closing of his latest theatrical failure. The man could act well enough but was not well-known enough to be recognised by theatre patrons, so he was the Sherlock Holmes I needed.</p><p>Unfortunately, Reginald Kincaid was very much an actor in his private life – that is to say, a fellow of few morals and addicted to every unpleasant thespianic vice (drink, gambling, licentiousness). His cheery, profane personality was the antithesis of the English gentleman I needed to present to the world, and a constant irritant to me. When we were not at a crime scene, we were constantly at odds, fighting so bitterly that I once threw him out of Baker Street – which quickly taught me that I could not do my work without his Holmes persona smoothing the way in public. </p><p>After our combined efforts to defeat Professor Moriarty, we had not only vanquished a criminal mastermind but had made amends. We had learned to appreciate each other's contributions to our work. I might do the actual sleuthing but it went unused and unappreciated without Kincaid's charismatic Holmes to focus that work on a case like a clue under his magnifying glass. I also reconciled myself to my secondary place in the eyes of the world (which was actually far more convenient for a first-class consulting detective than a middling-class physician). </p><p>At the time of which I speak – early spring of 1888 – Kincaid and I had been well settled into our reforged partnership for just short of two years. That morning we had received a note on thick, expensive paper with a Bohemian watermark informing us that a certain person would call upon us that evening at a quarter to eight to discuss a problem of the deepest concern, and that this agent of a powerful figure would be masked to hide his identity. </p><p>"Agent, my foot. He'll be some titled bloke," Kincaid had sniffed. "Thinks we won't realise that." </p><p>I stared at the actor. </p><p>"There's enough posh fellows who didn't want to be caught in a music hall. Thought grubby clothes and a mask would be disguise enough – when the mask itself was a giveaway before we could smell the scented soap on 'em."</p><p>Smiling at my friend's perspicacity within his own expertise, I took my own look at the letter. "And see how the sentence is structured – 'This account of you we have from all quarters received.' Only a German mistreats his verbs this way, so we are not dealing with English aristocracy." </p><p>Now it was evening. Reginald Kincaid was dressed in Sherlock Holmes' immaculate and quietly-elegant evening wear (Kincaid's own choice of clothes tended toward garish checked fabric) and peering up and down the street through the curtain. I was seated by the hearth. </p><p>A steady double-clop of hooves approached and stopped outside, the perfect cadence of two horses announcing the wealth at our door. I did not miss the glee in my partner's voice. "Blimey, that's a carriage! With the matching pair pulling it, we have a thousand guineas outside our door. There's money in this one, Watson!" </p><p>"And probably attached to a commonplace and dreary romantic intrigue," I growled, standing to receive our visitor. "Holmes, do <span class="u">not</span> accept this one unless I give the go-ahead, no matter how much money he waves under our noses." </p><p>"You and your 'work is its own reward' rot. Nothing wrong with making an honest bob." But Kincaid strode forward so that he would be closest to the parlour door. Something happened with his shoulders, the tilt of his head, his stride, and the Cockney actor at the window was Sherlock Holmes at the door. It never failed to amaze me. </p><p>The heavy solid tread up the stairs heralded a man of some considerable weight and girth, and when he filled the doorway my deduction was proved truth. A very tall man, broad, and nearly all muscle, resplendent in rich fabric, astrakhan wool and gems, stood in high fur-topped boots before us. He wore a vizard eye-mask on the upper half of his broad bewhiskered face, an attempt at anonymity as ridiculous as a lion wearing false rabbit ears. </p><p>"You had my note?" His voice was deep, and heavily accented in German. "I am the Count Von Kramm, and represent my employer in this business." </p><p>"We did." Sherlock Holmes spoke in his genial manner. "This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, before whom you may say what you say to me." </p><p>Von Kramm stared at me. I managed a bland and nonthreatening smile while I deduced him top to toe. Our visitor turned his full attention to Holmes. "Your friend – can he be trusted?" He spoke as if I were not in the room. </p><p>"When you speak to Dr. Watson it is the same as speaking to me. You may rely on our discretion." Holmes indicated the seats by our fire. "Pray take a seat, and tell me everything." </p><p>As Von Kramm moved across the hearth and we settled ourselves, I found a moment to whisper my intelligence in Kincaid's ear and felt him start, eyes staring for a second. Fortunately only I noticed as I seated myself on the sofa while Holmes took the other chair. </p><p>The man began a long rambling explanation for his desire for anonymity for his "employer," stressing the damage a possible scandal could bring to a great house in Europe. His treatment of other people, his mode of speech, and his expectation of being humoured during his rigmarole confirmed my deductions. </p><p>Kincaid himself added a splendid touch of the dramatic when the big man stopped for breath, with a bland "If Your Majesty would simply tell me what troubles you, I may be of assistance." </p><p>I managed to hide my own mirth when the exposed monarch sprang to his feet and tore the mask off his face in a pique. We were clearly dealing with a man so used to being lauded for nonexistent wit and intelligence by sycophants that he truly believed he was being clever by doing this.</p><p>The "count" – a.k.a. Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia – finally resettled his massive presence in his chair. "Very well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I will come straight to the point. Five years ago, during a lengthy stay in Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the adventuress Irene Adler." </p><p>Reginald Kincaid's experience as an actor in the shoddiest music-halls and theatres in London had made him an expert at staying in character despite obstacles (often literal ones) thrown at him. This had turned out to be excellent training for his work as the public face of Sherlock Holmes. Kincaid could be shocked or startled but never broke character. So it was now. To the dullard King's eyes the masterful sleuth took in that name with equanimity. But I saw how Kincaid gripped one chair arm as if clinging to a life-raft in a storm. "I believe I know a thing or two about her. Watson?" </p><p>I too had heard of the controversial contralto. "Every opera-lover knows the name Irene Adler, Your Majesty. She is nearly as well-known for her scandalous behaviour offstage. May I safely assume that by 'acquaintance' you mean that you and she were … intimate?"</p><p>The King nodded stiffly. </p><p>As I feared, a tawdry affair. No doubt he wished us to retrieve some remnants of his liaison with Adler. Letters, photographs. …Ah, it was a photograph. Of the pair of them together. What an idiot. And his five ham-handed attempts at wresting the photo from her had failed as spectacularly as anyone with an ounce of brains could have predicted. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes was his usual reassuring and superior self; but Kincaid was clearly shaken by something. When the King set a heavy bag on the table containing nearly a thousand pounds in gold and currency he hardly reacted, proof of his distraction. We saw the King out the door after he'd resumed his ridiculous mask. </p><p>Only when the thousand-guinea carriage was well down the street did I turn to my partner. "Out with it, old man."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes exhaled and slumped, and once again it was Reginald Kincaid in another man's evening suit. "Oh crikey, Watson. She's gotten herself in deep, our Jen has." </p><p>Our Jen. </p><p>I proceeded, cautious about my friend's state. "A woman who makes her own way in the world often protects her true identity by taking on another persona in public. This is especially true for women who perform on stage in any way." </p><p>Kincaid heaved himself to his feet and headed to the tantalus. For once I didn't look askance at his pouring a drink, for I needed one too. He slugged down a neat whisky and glared at me, pointing with the hand holding the glass. "She's not a whore. Get that through your head right now."</p><p>Taken aback at his vehemence, I only nodded. </p><p>"Jenny Norton's no saint. Never knew anyone in the life who was." Kincaid sketched a mocking bow, arms out, and I smiled to match his ironical tone. "But she could sing. Really sing. That's what gave her that edge over the other girls out there, the ones in troupes who did have to steal and whore to stay fed when acting didn't do it. That was her glory on stage, and that's what drove her. She made enough for opera lessons and she went even bigger. And offstage, she could act."</p><p>"Offstage?" But as soon as I said that I understood what Kincaid meant even as he explained.</p><p>"She could make a bloke think she was a cousin of Queen Victoria's who'd lost her way in the theatre district, or a waif who didn't know a thing about the world, or a train baron's daughter from New Jersey. And whoever she was playing, she treated that bloke like he was the only man in the world. Worked like a charm." </p><p>I thought of Kincaid – a Cockney orphan whose Sherlock Holmes <i>persona</i> was welcomed as one of their own by English gentry.</p><p>"She made friends. Rich friends. She was the kind of woman that posh blokes like to have on their arm at society do's, or laughing at their jokes on fox hunts. She had a good time and got nice gifts, and they were chuffed to have an opera star at their estate or party. Everyone was happy." Kincaid's face set. </p><p>I finished for him. "But 'befriending' an actual monarch is a dangerous game for women. Royal mistresses have been murdered as part of court intrigues, or to cover an affair or a bastard child." </p><p>Kincaid jerked his chin in the direction of the disappeared carriage. "That mug's a threat. He'll keep trying till he gets that photograph, or her." My partner exhaled. "I have to get to her before he gets impatient."</p><p>I nodded. "We were hired to retrieve the photograph. Well, Sherlock Holmes was." I would have to think about the best way to approach – </p><p>"No. This isn't a job for that toff." Kincaid held up a hand indicating that I was to wait, and disappeared into his room, from which I heard rustling, thumping, and swearing. </p><p>I gaped when he came out. Not Sherlock Holmes but Reginald Kincaid stood before me in a red checked jacket and green tie, brown trousers and worn boots. It was close to what I found him wearing when I first hired him. </p><p>"I have just a notion of where she might be." Kincaid winked at me. "Don't wait up, Watson." And though it was nearly midnight he was gone, leaving me alone in our Baker Street rooms gaping at the sudden absence – at that moment very much the slower-witted Watson of my writings. With nothing I could do until I had further data, I stowed the heavy money bag in the safe by my desk and retired to bed.  </p><p>When I awoke the next morning, I was aware of voices in the main room. One of them was Kincaid; the other was a woman's, speaking in a brassy American dialect. </p><p>When I walked in, I saw my partner at the dining table with a cup of tea and the remains of breakfast before him; he was still in the garments he'd had on the night before. Beside Reginald Kincaid sat a startlingly-pretty boy which, upon further scrutiny, proved to be a woman in man's clothing. She looked up at me, her wary eyes sweeping me top to bottom very much like my own method of observation. </p><p>Kincaid stood. "Miss Irene Adler, may I present Dr. John Watson, the chap who hires me to playact Sherlock Holmes every day God sends including Sunday matinee. Watson, meet Miss Irene Adler, the toast of Warsaw's opera season and the funniest Hamlet a Christmas pantomime ever had." </p><p>"So you're Reggie's patron." Her brassy New Jersey dialect was a strange pair with her strong, lovely features. </p><p>This was all incredibly … anticlimactic, was the only word that came to mind. But this was my partner's milieu, not mine; I decided to take his lead. I greeted the diva with a hand-kiss and apologised for having been asleep when she came here. </p><p>She smiled, wide and friendly, which transformed her features so much my heart twisted a moment. "A real gent. You landed a good one, Reggie." For all the bright smile, her eyes still assessed me keenly, before returning her attention to her cohort and my partner. </p><p>"She was at her place, keeping a weather eye out for more attempts by the King. Of course she was being watched by his agents." Kincaid grinned. "Me, I just went round to the back door like a chap looking for odd jobs, and told the footman to say that Reggie Kincaid was looking for Jenny Norton. Two minutes later I was in."</p><p>I really couldn't resist. "Brilliant, Holmes." </p><p>"I told her about our own arrangement, Watson. Said she should come here and we'd figure out what to do."</p><p>"Once Reggie had laid it all out I realised the rest was easy." The adventuress sipped from her cup whilst my partner drank from his saucer, not even pretending to be Holmes around his old acquaintance. "I have a good range of male costume in my wardrobe, so I dressed to match Reggie's togs. We both headed for the stable like I was the house groom bringing the new guy to his sleeping quarters. From there it was over the wall and down an alley, up a street, and hail a cab." </p><p>I inclined my head to her. Adventuress indeed – and not just the tawdry life for which that word was normally a euphemism. </p><p>"Irene Adler" stared at me and the smile was gone; the expression bored through me and twisted my heart in a very different way. No wonder she'd entangled so many men. Her brassy New Jersey voice only added heft and weight to her words. "Wilhelm hired you to obtain the photo, didn't he? Let's get one thing straight, Dr. Watson. I'm not giving the damned thing to either of you. It's my last-ditch protection from that man. He won't dare try anything with me right now, for fear of losing that sweet, pious, politically expedient fiancée of his." </p><p>Ah. She wanted it for self-defence, nothing more.</p><p>Kincaid's voice was light and jovial, but his eyes were dark. "Jen. The problem is, the King is sure you're plotting to use that photo to expose him and scuttle his marriage."</p><p>The woman stared at Kincaid, then laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, of course he thinks that! He doesn't have the wit or imagination to consider the experience of anyone else. Yes, I <span class="u">could</span> use that photo to ruin a royal marriage out of spite – and <span class="u">then</span> what would happen to me afterward? What's the exact opposite of a knighthood?"</p><p>Kincaid lit his pipe. "Coventry," exhaled in a puff of smoke. "If you're lucky."</p><p>She nodded. "I don't have his wealth or his position. I've thwarted him so far, but it's getting damn tiresome. He can keep throwing people at me till he gets what he wants. Europe is too dangerous, and England is becoming so. What I need is to disappear. America might be far enough away,"</p><p>"Easily so," said I. That country's notorious contempt for hereditary royalty automatically neutralised anything said there about European monarchs. </p><p>"You wouldn't have to go any further than the old home soil – New Jersey." Kincaid grinned. "The King probably thinks they're still fighting Indians there." </p><p>Her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. "Not New Jersey. Definitely not New York. Possibly Delaware or Connecticut. But I'd have to lie low, stay out of sight and mind until he's married, and at least six months after that – his little nun of a princess should be expecting the royal heir by that time. I won't be able to make my living, or he'll hear of me. And no socializing with rich men either – they brag to each other, and he'd find out where I was."</p><p>So she was born in New Jersey. "Surely you have family that would take you in–"</p><p>"None of them!" </p><p>I moved back a little at the anger in the voice, matching the anger and pride in her expression turned fully upon me. It was like facing a leashed dragon. I saw that Kincaid only nodded with no change of expression at Irene's vehemence; unlike me, he had not been taken by surprise. </p><p>Adler continued, still in angry tones. "Not one of them. They'd only accept my return if I approached on my knees, the repentant Jezebel. I'd be 'taken in' all right – then put to work as an unpaid governess for an aunt or cousin with twelve brats. And they'd make me go to <i>church</i> with them." She settled again, the anger fading from her face and voice. "I'll be all right. I took some jewelry with me and I can sell it for passage to the States; if there isn't enough left to live on I can work as a maid."</p><p>"Not necessary, Jen." Reginald Kincaid grinned ear to ear. "Keep your jewelry. If ready money's all you need…"</p><p>How absurdly simple. I laughed. "Excellent solution, my dear Holmes! I think the notes will be lighter and easier to carry than gold."</p><p>"Gold? Notes?" Our visitor looked at both of us, and a moment later grinned wide once again. " Wilhelm gave you an expense account!" </p><p>Perceptive as well as intelligent. The King had never deserved her. "Why yes he did, Miss Adler." </p><p>Kincaid spread his hands. "How appropriate that he pays your way." </p><p>She laughed out loud. "Serve him right, too." But I saw her shoulders drop in relief for all her show of careless mirth.</p><p>"No photograph for His Majesty." I looked at Kincaid with a wry smile. "I'm afraid this will have to be one of Sherlock Holmes' rare failures." </p><p>The next few hours were busy ones. Miss Irene Adler wrote a note we were to deliver to Wilhelm, and then she and my partner sewed £800 into a dozen places in her boy's outfit, leaving just enough in a pocketbook for her passage expenses. Kincaid and I also supplied a few extra changes of clothing out of my costumes and Kincaid's non-Holmes outfits, stowed in an old carpetbag. After luncheon both Kincaid and Adler retired for a rest, having been up a good portion of the night (Irene in my bedroom). </p><p>At dusk we three went outside and hailed a four-wheeler for the docks. All of us wore our accustomed disguise – Irene nee Jenny in her boy's clothes, Kincaid in Sherlock Holmes' tweed and deerstalker, and I wearing my usual clothing but in my faithful-biographer persona. The driver took no notice of us, as it was hardly the first time Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson accompanied one of their street-urchins to some rough location at night. At the quay, a quick moment of observation and deduction by me found a ship of reputable crew being laden for a trans-Atlantic voyage, set to leave at high tide.  And that was that. </p><p>"Good night, sweet prince," Reginald Kincaid called after Jenny Norton, "and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."</p><p>Without looking behind as she boarded the gangplank, Irene Adler said in her boy's voice, "Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."</p><p>The clocks had not yet struck nine when we arrived back at Baker Street, exhausted after a long eventful day. </p><p>Kincaid was a much happier fellow as he doffed the deerstalker. "She'll be all right now, Watson." He yawned hugely. "'Sfunny, we never really looked for that photograph the King wanted."</p><p>"Oh, that. It was in her bowler hat. Of course she wouldn't leave her home without taking her most valuable possession with her." I muffled a yawn. "I saw it when we helped her pack. I took it when she was asleep and replaced it with a piece of paper the same size, thickness and colour as the backing."</p><p>"You <span class="u">what</span>?"</p><p>Wiping the spray out of my eye – my irate partner had been only inches away from my face when he rounded on me with that reaction – I walked past Kincaid and headed to my desk. "It's safer for her if we just give the damned thing to the King. This is no time for her foolish pride." </p><p>"Foolish–! Do you mean to tell me she's headed to America for <span class="u">nothing</span>?"</p><p>"Of course not!" I busied myself with the locked drawer at the top of the desk. "But no one can fathom the mind of a king. If she stayed here he could just as easily have her killed anyway, photo or no. This way he feels safer, will not be inclined to track her down, and once he's married all of this is a moot point." With a flourish, I pulled out my desk drawer. </p><p><b>NICE TRY</b> was the only thing written on the note resting where I'd left the photograph, which was nowhere to be found.</p><p>It transpired that Jenny Norton was a dab hand at lockpicking; Kincaid told me so, after he'd stopped laughing.</p><p>*** </p><p>As we'd anticipated, King Wilhelm was not happy at us losing his quarry. However, Kincaid and I had conjured a story to tell His Majesty – of infiltrating Irene Adler's home and starting a false cry of 'fire' to make her reach for the photograph's hiding place, only to have our prey flown when we returned the next day leaving only the letter we presented. Fortunately, Irene's note – informing Wilhelm that he was safe from her forever, that she was in love with another man and would not expose her past by causing a scandal – set him at ease. Much to our relief, he did not demand a return of our expense account, leaving us the owners of £300 in gold. We saw the Bohemian royalty off in his thousand-guinea carriage. </p><p>Kincaid shook his head. "To think that if His Majesty had a grain of sense, he'd have asked our Jen to be a Queen." </p><p>"Lucky for her he doesn't." </p><p>"You said it, mate." My partner handed me a brandy and raised his own. "To the only woman who ever outfoxed Sherlock Holmes." </p><p>I leaned forward to clink my glass against his own. "And that's exactly how I'll write it."</p>
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